Joel's Thoughts about Heaven

I haven't posted in awhile because I haven't known how to.  I have felt...choked up inside, I guess, and I haven't know how to get anything out.  My mind and heart have been a jumble of emotions and thoughts, and I've felt lost about how to put those thoughts and emotions into words and on our blog.  So I haven't written anything.  Everyday at nap time, I think, "Maybe today I can blog.  Can I?....I don't know where to start.  Maybe tomorrow..."  So today I simply decided that I'm starting somewhere.  I'm starting with Joel.

A couple of days after Easter, Joel and I were watering the Japanese maple we planted in memory of Samuel.  We call it "The Samuel Tree."  It's beautiful now with deep, rich red leaves.  I love looking at it, and watering it is something the boys and I often do together.  As I was tipping the watering can over the tree and Joel was splashing his hands in the pouring water, he looked up and asked me, "Is Samuel alive?"  I have learned not to be alarmed by Joel's repeated questions regarding Samuel's death.  Judy, our grief counselor, taught us that until children are around 6 years old, they cannot grasp the finality of death; they believe it is reversible.  So I wasn't bothered by the question though I was curious about its inverse order.  Usually Joel asks if Samuel is dead, so asking if he was alive was new.  I told him compassionately, "No, honey, Samuel is not alive.  Samuel is dead."  He paused and looked back up at me: "But is Jesus alive?"  I was pretty stunned by the connection he was making.  Joel had understood something of the story of Easter.  Jesus was dead, but He didn't stay dead.  He rose from the dead and is now alive.  Joel followed that and connected it to Samuel.  If Samuel was dead, did he have to stay dead when Jesus didn't?  I was speechless for a minute because it had never occured to me that Jesus' resurrection would confuse my not yet three year old, but it makes perfect sense.  I had just never seen it from that perspective before.   I tried to explain how special Jesus is and how it's a miracle that Jesus didn't stay dead.  But the concept of a miracle was harder to explain than I'd anticipated.  I didn't want him to think it was magic, and I am not at all sure he followed what I said.  He did, however, seem to understand that Samuel is still dead even though Jesus was resurrected.

At the breakfast table a few days later, Joel said to me with a shrug in his shoulder, "Momma, I don't know how to get to Heaven.  How do you get there?  Do you walk?  Take a car?  What?"  Again, Joel's perspective had never occured to me.  In his mind Heaven must be a place like Italy is a place or Turkey is a place.  Just as my cousin has gone to Italy for his final semester of college, and my mom is in Turkey for four months, so Samuel must be on a trip to Heaven.  All three people he loves are "gone," and he can't distinguish the difference between a journey and death.  I am grateful for these moments that help me understand what he's thinking and that enable me to try and explain, however inadequately, about death. 

As a result of Joel's literal mind, I have learned not to use with him (or really with anyone) the softening language we tend to prefer in America like "lost."  Samuel is not lost.  He is the exact opposite of lost.  I don't know why we even think lost is a more comforting term than dead.  Imagine being lost for eternity.  That sounds horrible.  "Gone" is equally undesirable in my opinion and confusing for children.  Why are we so afraid of the truth?  Why are we afraid to say dead? 

The other thing Joel has asked numerous times lately is, "Are there toys in Heaven?"  He clearly spends time wondering what Samuel is up to and if Samuel is happy.  I told him what my mom told me when I was a kid and was worried that my pets wouldn't be in Heaven with me: "Joel, I don't know.  But I do know this.  Heaven will have whatever we need to be truly happy."  Joel decided that there are, indeed, toys in Heaven. 

I am still surprised by how often Samuel is on Caleb and Joel's minds, but in some ways it comforts me.  I am glad they think of him as part of the family and want to know that he's happy and cared for.  I want to know that too.  And I'm so thankful that I can know it. 

Hoping in God Alone

It's been a hard couple of days for me.  One of those stretches where babies and pregnant bellies and passing families with 3 kids open up a pit in my stomach, and I think I'm going to get sucked inside a vortex of grief.  I don't like these days.  They are days that challenge my dependence on God, my trust in His unwavering goodness, and my patience with His ways and timing.  They are days when all I really want to do is climb in bed, cry, and sleep.  Thankfully, they are no longer normal days for me, but they sure sting when they come.  It's been awhile since I've had a day as hollow feeling as this one.  I had forgotten how bottomless they feel and just how bad they are. 

This morning after I got out of the shower, I was remembering the hours after Samuel first died.  I remembered how we finally walked away from his body and went to the sleep pods to collect our stuff.  We had gotten a wagon while at Samuel's dock to put all his stuff in as well as the plethora of grief material the hospital brought us shortly after he died.  I remembered walking down that long hallway to the sleeping area, pulling the wagon and being numb and in a daze and mostly feeling lost and confused and so, so heavy-hearted.  For some reason this morning I thought of the woman's face who ran that area of the hospital.  She had seen us everyday for 9 days -- asking for a lottery number for the rooms, checking if we got one, putting our stuff in a room, dragging it back out the next morning.  She knew us a little, and as we walked toward her area, she was standing at her desk with tears in her eyes.  For some reason, the picture of that made me break down sobbing in the bathroom.  I am often surprised by what elicits tears these days.

I'm learning that much of my hope lately seems to be on a picture of our future in this life.  My better days are when I think our future looks promising, even though it doesn't hold Samuel.  When I think God really might grant us more children who are healthy and well, I walk lighter and smile more easily.  But when something makes me doubt that vision of what's ahead, I find the ever-lapping waves of grief grow mighty and pull me under, and it takes me a few days to surface again. 

I have misplaced my hope.  I know in my head that true hope, hope that will definitely be satisfied, can only be found in Christ and His death and resurrection.  All others hopes are insufficient, bound to be disappointed in some facet, and distracting from the ultimate hope of Heaven and eternity with Christ.  But my heart seems to be lagging behind my head, still clinging to earthly hopes and still anchoring itself on temporal dreams.  I'm not sure how to redirect my heart to something that feels so far away when I am so hungry for God to satisfy my earthly dreams.  I guess recognizing the problem is a start.

When Samuel was in the hospital, a friend gave us a Matt Redman cd.  I didn't really listen to it and pay attention to the lyrics until January (probably my worst month of grief) when it was my turn at the wheel on our trip to Disney.  I was immediately drawn to one of the songs in particular, and when I'd go running (something I hate to do but it seemed to help with my anger), I would play this song over and over.  A few weeks ago, our church performed the same song on Easter, and then we sang it the following Sunday.  The words are relevant to my misplaced hope and the real, lasting hope of Christ.

"Who, oh Lord, could save themselves,
Their own soul could heal?
Our shame was deeper than the sea
Your grace is deeper still

Who, oh Lord, could save themselves,
Their own soul could heal?
Our shame was deeper than the sea
Your grace is deeper still

You alone can rescue, You alone can save
You alone can lift us from the grave
You came down to find us, led us out of death
To You alone belongs the highest praise

You, oh Lord, have made a way
The great divide You heal
For when our hearts were far away
Your love went further still
Yes, your love goes further still

You alone can rescue, You alone can save
You alone can lift us from the grave
You came down to find us, led us out of death
To You alone belongs the highest praise
To You alone belongs the highest praise
To You alone belongs the highest praise

We lift up our eyes, lift up our eyes
You’re the Giver of Life
We lift up our eyes, lift up our eyes
You’re the Giver of Life

You alone can rescue, You alone can save
You alone can lift us from the grave
You came down to find us, led us out of death
To You alone belongs the highest praise
To You alone belongs the highest praise
To You alone belongs the highest praise."


I keep finding such truth in "Who, oh Lord, could save themselves,/ Their own soul could heal?"  I am so glad that God is the giver of life, that He can lift us from the grave, that He alone can rescue, that He has led us out of death, and that He has made a way, the great divide He's healed.  He is the ONE in whom my hope should rest, regardless of circumstances, regardless of sorrow, regardless of grief.  To Him alone belongs the highest praise.  O, Lord, help me place my hope in You alone, and heal this soul that I cannot.  You deserve my praise, and I freely give it.  Thank You for rescuing me and for lifting Samuel from the grave.  Thank You that one day You will lift me too, and my hope will be satisfied.  Give me courage to hope in You and faith to trust You no matter what life holds.  Anchor me to You alone.  Amen.

That's How the Light Gets In

Last week Bryan and I went to grief counseling for the third time.  Judy, our counselor, shared a quote with us from a Leonard Cohen song called "Anthem."  I've been thinking about it ever since.

"Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack in everything
That's how the light gets in."

I guess there are multiple layers to this that I keep returning to.  The part that draws me most is "There is a crack in everything/ That's how the light gets in."  It's so true.  In my life, the parts of my story that are cracked are the parts that show Christ most brightly.  Where I am broken -- be it by my own doing or by someone else's -- that is where Christ shines brilliantly.  Without fail, the times when I have seen God's faithfulness the clearest and most vividly, where He is radiant and most compelling, are the times when my world is cracked.  Life without Samuel is broken at its very core, but I can see God's light with more clarity than ever before.  His light casts rays over everything; even in the darkest of days, God's light shimmers over me.  He glows with goodness, kindness, peace, faithfulness, and love.  In the darkness, His light shines the brightest.

And as God's light filters through the cracks in my broken heart, it shines on what is rotten and sinful.  It illuminates the dark parts of my heart I couldn't see before.  In these days I can see -- with appalling clarity -- my pride, my selfishness, my resistance to direction from others, my reluctance to open my hands and lay what I treasure before God's throne, and my tendency to be defensive.  God's light, coming through the cracks of my broken life, pronounces sin for what it is -- not as the harmless idiosyncrasies I sometimes like to think of them as.

I like the first two lines of Cohen's verse as well: "Ring the bells that still can ring/ Forget your perfect offering."  I am not perfect, and I cannot offer God a perfect me.  As much as I want to honor Him in my grief and in how I respond to the tragedy in our lives, I know I cannot do it perfectly.  I fall short all the time.  But that doesn't mean I shouldn't try or that I shouldn't proclaim my faith in Him.  It doesn't mean I shouldn't blog until I have the answers and until I can state my faith flawlessly or represent Him with perfect accuracy.  I am so far from the woman I want to be, but I can still ring the bells for God.  I can still shout out my love for Christ and praise Him with what I am and where I am.  I'm not the me I want to be, but I can offer God who I am right now.  He will meet me where I am, and in the cracks of my heart, He will shine His perfect light and begin to change me into that woman I wish I was.

So though I have fleeting moments when I'm tempted to wish for an unblemished and easy life, I know there is no such thing.  And I know without the hardships and heartbreaks of my life, I would not be able to see, by contrast, the amazing brilliance of God's perfect light.  In my sorrow and pain, I can still "ring the bells that still can ring."  Losing Samuel has in no way squelched my love for or trust in God.  It's done the exact opposite, in fact.  I can declare God's truth, love, and faithfulness with this broken heart of mine.  And though I am not perfect, I can offer who I am.  In my imperfections, and in the imperfections of the world around me, God's light can radiate and offer real hope and real joy and real peace.   So, I will:

"Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack in everything
That's how the light gets in."

A Week of Anniversaries

The last week has been full of significant days.  We marked 7 months since Samuel died, 8 months since his birth, a year since we found out he was a boy and had heart defects, the day on which we remember Jesus' death, the day on which we celebrate His resurrection, and a year since we saw the pediatric cardiologist for the first time and got our first of numerous varying pictures of what to expect once Samuel was born (according to the diagnosis, Samuel would need surgery within a few days of birth, but the success rate was 95%).  It's been a little daunting to dwell on each of these days and to let the significance of them really sink in. 

When I think about a year ago, this past week was the one in which I most prepared to have a son who would die.  Once we found out Samuel had a heart defect, we did not do any investigation to learn more about the diagnosis.  We knew that the initial diagnosis from my OB's office was a best guess, and the perinatologist seemed very unconvinced that her differing diagnosis was accurate.  So Bryan and I decided to wait until we heard from the pediatric cardiologist to do any research, to google anything, etc.  We didn't want to go down some road we didn't have to travel.  So we waited.  In those 6 days of waiting, I was prepared for the worst.  I was aware that my son could die.  I was aware that he was not mine but was God's.  I was aware that I had to have open hands.  And I trusted God to see us through whatever was ahead.  I am deeply thankful, looking back, that I had those 6 days to prepare my heart to lose my son.  I don't think I would have had the courage to dwell in that place if we'd heard right away that there was a 95% success rate, and in all likelihood, we'd be bringing home a healthy baby after a few really rough weeks at the very start of his life.  Those days, more than any other, prepared me for the life we have found ourselves living.

On the desk in front of me is the one picture of me holding Samuel, just the two of us.  I find my eyes keep drifting up there.  Bryan took it about 45 minutes after he was born.  I bet I had him in my arms for less than a minute.  I barely got a look at him.  I didn't know I would never again get to see his living face unencumbered by tubes and tape.  And little did I know that those would be the only moments of hope-filled holding I would do.  The next time I would hold my son, he would be the size of a 6 month old from all the swelling, covered by tape, tubes, and a dozen wires, and on his way out of this life and into the eternal hereafter.  How short our time together was.

On Good Friday, I kept thinking about Jesus dying and how God chose it.  God willingly gave up His son for me, for Samuel.  When I think of the agony we endured in August, watching our son die, my heart falters imagining God opening up His hands and sacrificing His perfect son for a very imperfect and fallen people.  He gave up the one He loved for the beings He created -- the very beings who rejected Him, betrayed Him, doubted Him, cursed Him.  I can't begin to imagine giving up my son for anyone, much less for a people who were cruel, broken, sinful, and full of pride.  Jesus' death means more to me than ever before.  He died on that cross for me and for my sons.  And God's sacrifice as a father...it humbles me and brings me to my knees before Him.

Just as Good Friday has grown in significance for me, Easter also holds more meaning and joy than ever before.  Jesus' resurrection is what I pin my hopes on.  Because Jesus rose again and conquered death, Samuel will rise again, and someday I too will rise and see my sweet son once more.  Though the hope of Heaven has always been a part of my faith, it's personal now.  There is someone in Heaven I can't wait to see again.  Because of Jesus, Samuel is more a part of my future than of my past. 

It's been a big week, and I think it will be a few more weeks before I'll be able to really let the significance of these anniversaries settle.  They all still feel astir in my soul.  And though it's been a hard week in many ways, it's also been a good week.  Easter feels kindly timed to remind me of the hope that is ahead.  And we had a great Easter in many ways.  My cousin, Emily, joined us for the weekend, and that helped lift our spirits a lot.  She is a joy, and Caleb and Joel are crazy about her.  When she left on Sunday evening, I immediately felt myself deflating.  All the energy that buoyed me up while she was here vanished as the door closed behind her.  I guess that's part of grief.  Every high is followed by a noticeable low.  I felt the weight of grief crashing back down.  But these days grief feels more manageable than it once did.  Though I was burdened, I didn't feel like I was suffocating, and that's major improvement.

Truly, our weekend was full of smiles.  Here is some proof:

 Bryan made a scavenger hunt for the boys to find their Easter baskets.  They had a ball!  One is Caleb on his way to his next clue, and the next is Joel finding his clue.

And just because it seems wrong not to post these, here are Bryan's latest pancake masterpieces:

R2D2

Admiral Ackbar

Yoda

Storm Trooper (I think his name is Davin Felth?)

From My Journal a Year Ago Today

On April 2, 2009, I wrote the following in my journal:

"Today we found out we're having another boy!  3 boys...WOW.  And we found out he has a heart defect -- it's called Transposition of the Great Vessels.  And he may have VSD (a hole in his heart) as well.  This morning when I woke up, I was so anxious about this ultrasound.  I felt so uneasy and unsettled.  I got there before Bryan and went back to the ultrasound room before he arrived.  The sonographer looked at baby very briefly and then left to see if Bryan was here yet.  At that point I felt quite uneasy, but I prayed, and my heart quieted.  I spent the drive praying too.  After we saw lots of things and found out it was a boy, the sonographer told us she saw some things she wanted to talk to Dr. Lambert about and to sit tight.  Though I knew that wasn't good news, I felt total peace.  I wished Dr. Siegel was there, but other than that I felt calm and unruffled.  Dr. Siegel came in to my surprise and told us he'd meet us in a room.  Normally, he's in surgery on Thursday, but he happened to be in the hall and overheard the news.  B and I waited a bit longer, and Dr. S came in and told us the news.  He walked us through it, drew diagrams, and was very kind.  Basically our son will need heart surgery sometime in the first few months after he's born.  This is not something I ever thought I could endure.  I've often thought the one area I didn't think I could be tested in and truly rest in God and be okay is the health and life of my children.  I already know I was wrong, for I have felt total confidence in His goodness NO MATTER the outcome of this trial.  Our stories (B and me) have not been easy thus far, and I am grateful for that.  I am grateful for God's story in my life -- for how He's molded and shaped me through the hardships and heartbreaks, and I look forward to who He will make me to be on the other side of whatever is ahead.  I know it will be a refining road.  I know it will hurt and require great faith on my part, but I know my God is worthy of all my faith and praise.  I rest in Him.

"As I opened my Bible for some time with Him (I am in Psalm 108), the opening verses were these:

              'My heart is confident in You, O God; no wonder I can sing your praises.'

"So perfect for today.  My HEART is confident in Him, and I can, in all honesty, sing His praises.  And my HEART knows He made my son's HEART.  He is a God of no mistakes.

"Thank you, Lord, that I can trust You, that this boy is in Your hands.  Thank you that You are God of all of this, of all that is ahead.  I TRUST YOU.  Amen."

A year later, and on the other side of "NO MATTER the outcome of this trial," I say with full confidence that God is indeed good.   My heart is still confident in Him, and I sing His praises with more conviction than ever.  I am thankful for this unfiltered outpouring of my thoughts and feelings from that day, for a documented glimpse of how God started to carry us from the moment we knew something was wrong.  He has faithfully carried us every day of the last year, and I can look ahead and say that NO MATTER what is next, He will continue to carry me, and His faithfulness will endure.  How grateful I am for a God who sent His son to die for me.  I can, in fact, rest in Him.